


Interlude: Skin

by leonidaslion



Series: Berserker [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, Spirit Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s shoulder hurt like hell as he climbed out of the sewer, but he grit his teeth and ignored it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude: Skin

Dean’s shoulder hurt like hell as he climbed out of the sewer, but he grit his teeth and ignored it. He’d hunted through worse, and this shapeshifting freak was really starting to piss him off. Making him climb down into the sewers, with the walls closing in on him and earth blocking out the air. Making him have to look at and smell that yak-inducing discharge and then popping out of nowhere and practically slamming his arm out of his socket …

Bitch was going down.

The night air as he breached the manhole cover was sweet and cool, and Dean gasped in a clean breath as he heaved himself up and over. The shifty bastard was nowhere in sight, but it couldn’t have gone far.

“All right, let’s split up,” Sam said.

Dean finally glanced at his brother, who was hiding his gun underneath his jacket. _Good idea_ , Dean thought, and followed suit before grunting, “All right, I’ll meet you around the other side.”

He accidentally used his injured arm to point out the direction he was going to take, and then grimaced as a jolt of pain shot down it. Luckily, Sam was already moving away and didn’t notice. He probably would have argued about splitting up if he’d realized just how much Dean’s shoulder was still bothering him, and they needed to cover as much ground as possible here.

There were far too many people out for Dean’s peace of mind, all of them making startled little gasps and jumping when they caught sight of his gun. He ducked down an alley and dropped the gun to half-conceal it against his leg. Scanned for someone wearing jeans and a dirt-smeared white shirt. No matter how fast the shifter could change its face, clothes would be a little more difficult.

There was the sound of something metallic crashing to the ground down an adjoining alley and Dean altered his course, hugging the wall and constantly scanning for movement. It was dark down here, where the streetlights didn’t reach, but if he pulled out his flashlight, then he’d make the perfect target. Besides, he could still see okay—

Dean tripped over something and swore, bringing his gun up and almost firing before he realized that he’d just been attacked by a trashcan. That was probably what he’d heard going over before. Frowning, he held the gun loosely with his right hand and fished out his flashlight. Target or not, he had to admit that he really couldn’t see for shit in here, and he couldn’t work blind.

Snapping the flashlight on, Dean trained the beam on the ground in front of him. Yup, trashcan. Its contents had been spilled out over the pavement, mostly rotting food scraps and used napkins—he was probably behind some kind of restaurant—and then Dean’s eyes widened. Amidst the other, normal trash, there was a dirty white t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

What the hell? Was that freak running around _naked_ somewhere?

“Looking for me?” That voice had come from directly behind him—bastard was quiet—and Dean already knew he wasn’t going to get the gun around in time.

He tried anyway, stepping back as he turned to try putting more space between them, and then something came hurtling at his head out of the night and everything went dark.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It hummed to itself as it dressed itself in the human’s clothes: this new shape had plenty of music in his head. Plenty of information and knowledge and, best of all, _feelings_. It had only touched the surface of the human’s—of Dean’s—thoughts as of yet, but it already knew that it was going to enjoy this shape. It was going to coat itself in Dean Winchester and breath in through his mouth and drink in his life.

It—no, _he_ : he was Dean now—grinned as he finished zipping up his pants. Patted his hands down over this new body—strong and sturdy, handsome—one last time, checking to see if he’d forgotten anything. He had to get back aboveground soon if he wanted to catch the other one unawares.

He’d started to turn away when he caught sight of the necklace hanging from Dean’s neck. Crouching next to the human, he wondered how he’d missed that the first time around. After a moment of thought, he remembered holding that bull-horned head in his hand and catching a stray, forceful thought from the human’s mind— _doesn’t come off, never comes off_ —and letting it drop again. Which was a strange reaction, considering that he was going for authenticity here, and if the human never took the necklace off, he was going to need it.

The thing that was beginning to think of itself as Dean Winchester reached out and took hold of the necklace. That thought came again, so strong it was almost a command, but this time he was ready for it and lifted the necklace free anyway.

Dean’s eyes snapped open as soon as the leather loop had cleared his head. Yellow, glowing irises.

Startled, the new Dean took a step backwards while simultaneously reaching his mind out toward his captive. And that wasn’t Dean Winchester in there: it wasn’t even human. He watched the human’s body struggle against the ropes, heard the desperate, alien intelligence inside of it complain: _too weak, slept too long, tired, stupid hornhead_.

“Who are you?” Dean asked.

The thing that wasn’t Dean Winchester raised those yellow eyes and growled, nostrils flaring. “Noshape!” it said, voice heavy with anger. “Let us go.”

Fascinated despite the little voice of reason that was telling him to cut his losses with this body and run, Dean shook his head. “Yeah, I’m thinking no.” _You don’t have time for this_ , he reminded himself. _Sam—Sammy—is waiting for you._

The thing that wasn’t Dean Winchester was snarling now, fighting the ropes frantically and getting stronger by the second. “Kill you! Tear your throat! Bite rip eat!”

Dean edged closer and slammed his fist into the side of the thing’s jaw, not sure if it would work or not. But Dean Winchester’s body sagged against the ropes again, eyes dropping shut. _Sure, but for how long?_ Dean asked himself. He didn’t know the answer, but he did know that if he hesitated any longer, Sam was going to slip through his fingers.

Which would be a damned shame.

He turned and jogged through the sewers without a backward glance. If that thing that wasn’t Dean Winchester woke up while he was gone, it would probably be able to break free from the ropes. And despite his infatuation with his present shape, Dean wasn’t sure if he’d be disappointed to see that his captive was gone, or relieved.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean Winchester’s body was still there when Dean returned with Sam slung over his shoulder. He kept a careful eye on it while he trussed Sam to a support beam, arranging the restraints so that any struggling on the human’s part would pull the rope tighter across his neck. Given enough time, he figured that Sam could probably free himself from even the most secure knots, but this should hold him for a while.

When Sam was taken care of, he dragged some lengths of chain over to Dean Winchester’s unconscious body and wound them around the human’s torso. Used a heavy padlock to fasten the mess and then crouched down in front of him to wait.

A few minutes later, the captive’s eyes opened, yellow and bright. Dean resisted the urge to shudder. He’d been cutting it way too close with this thing.

He watched the thing that wasn’t Dean Winchester test its new restraints. Waited for its anger to become tinged with a reluctant acceptance that it wasn’t going anywhere before asking again, “Who are you?”

The thing glared at him. “Noshape will die with my teeth in its throat,” it declared.

Dean snorted and dropped into an easy cross-legged position. “I can just _take_ the information,” he said.

He could, too. He could reach into the thing's mind and find out everything he wanted to know because it was somehow connected to Dean Winchester’s mind, and he had free range there. But he didn’t really want to do that if he didn’t have to. He wasn’t sure what touching something so alien would do to him.

Luckily, the thing bought his bluff. “Am … ” It frowned, as though searching for a word to describe itself and failing. “DeanMeMine calls me DamnedWolf.”

“A wolf, huh?” Well, the whole ripping his throat out thing made more sense now. “So what are you, some kind of ghost?”

It thought again, and he felt its mind shuffle through Dean Winchester’s, almost brushing up against his own hold on the human’s mind in the process. “DeanMeMine says I am AnimalSpiritBerserker.”

“Huh.” Now that he knew what he was looking for, Dean searched the human’s mind and easily found his memories of the incident and what had come after. Interesting. And Sammy didn’t know what his big brother had been up to. What was living inside of his skin.

Dean lifted the necklace— _amulet_ , he corrected himself—in one hand and looked down at it. The wolf caught sight of it and its lips pulled back in a snarl.

“Stupid hornhead. Smash to pieces!” It sounded angry, but fear was bright in its eyes.

“Don’t want to go back to sleep, do you?” Dean asked, tapping one finger against the amulet absently.

The wolf scowled at him. “Can’t catch me again. Too fast. Too smart.”

Dean grinned and moved to take the amulet off. “Well then, I’ll just slip it back around—”

“No!” There it was: the raw panic he was looking for.

“I thought it couldn’t catch you again,” he pointed out.

“Might,” the wolf admitted grudgingly. “Don’t know forcertainsure.”

“Maybe we can come to some kind of agreement,” Dean offered. He let the necklace fall back into place and the wolf relaxed minutely.

“No bargain with noshape,” it said, and then almost immediately and in a small voice, “What want?”

What _did_ he want? But as soon as he wondered, he knew. “I want this,” he said, spreading his arms. “I want his life.”

“DeanMe _Mine_ ,” the wolf snapped.

He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I need—in order to keep my shape, I need contact every once in a while. I need to touch what I’m copying: need to get inside their head and make sure everything’s still lined up right.” Which was what made maintaining a single shape so difficult. He could remember how to make new skins for a while, but eventually things started going wrong.

“So I break ‘hornhead’ for you, and you drop by three times a year so I can get a fix. And otherwise you stay out of sight.” He figured that shouldn’t be too tough for a wolf: it wasn’t really going to want to hang out in the city anyway.

“Can’t,” the wolf grumbled. “DeanMeMine fights. Doesn’t see.” It looked sad now, head drooping. “Two-as-one better,” it added.

“Yeah, sure it is,” Dean agreed. Better for him, anyway: he didn’t know what that kind of thing would do to the human. Didn’t really care, as long as it got him what he wanted. With a skin like this, he could do anything. He could still kill with other shapes and then go back to this one to hide. It would be perfect.

“DeanMeMine wants SamBrotherFriendPartnerSammy,” the wolf complained. It twisted its head around, trying to look back where he’d stashed Sam. When it turned back to him, it had a sly expression on its face.

“No more SamBrotherFriendPartnerSammy.”

“You want me to kill his brother?” Dean asked. The idea did hold a certain attraction. He normally went for women, but Dean Winchester’s emotions would be so fucking delicious when he found Sam butchered. Well, until the wolf got hold of him, that was. And Sam’s fear and pain when his _brother_ cut into him … yeah, Dean could do this.

But the wolf was shaking its head. “No kill,” it said firmly. “Want SamBrotherFriendPartnerSammy to _go_. Always leaves. SamBrotherFriendPartnerSammy leaves DeanMeMine, and DeanMeMine—”

“Turns to you. Yeah, I get the picture.” The wolf probably knew how close it had come to getting what it wanted, in those few weeks after John Winchester had left his son in New Orleans. Dean could certainly see it in the human’s memories. “So I get Sammy to ditch you and break the amulet and we’ve got a deal?”

The wolf still hesitated, and he could tell that it was killing it to have to bargain with something like him—with a _noshape_. But in the end, it didn’t really have another choice. He was the one holding all the cards here. “Yes,” it said finally.

“Okay.” He grinned. “But first I want to take this body out for a test drive.” There was a blond girl—Rebecca. He could see her in the human’s memories; felt the human’s desire for her. He wasn’t going to be able to use Dean’s body for his little games in the future—too much danger of being seen like this and becoming hunted—but he had to know what it felt like at least once. He suspected that it would feel fucking awesome.

He started to stand and the wolf wriggled its body against the restraints. “No chains,” it insisted.

“You swear you won’t try to get away if I take the chains off?” he asked. He’d take its oath: he could tell that it had a pretty strong sense of honor, alien intelligence or not.

The wolf nodded. “No run. Stay here.”

Dean fished the key out of his pocket and snapped the lock open. As he unwound the links of chain, his hand brushed against the wolf’s arm, and he felt something slip inside his mind. Jerking away, he stared at the wolf.

“What the fuck!”

 **::Don’t trust,::** the wolf said, and it was _in his head_. It had somehow reached through the hold he had on the human’s mind and placed part of itself inside of him. A small piece, but enough to feel like a burr against the inside of his skull. Enough that he could sense the strain it was placing on the wolf to divide itself like that.

Dean wanted to fight the wolf on this—wanted it out—and felt a moment of kinship with Dean Winchester wash over him. That wolf was an invasive son of a bitch. But he didn’t know how to get rid of it, and it wasn’t like it hurt or anything. Having the wolf there was annoying, but he could deal with it. To have this body as his own, he could put up with the damned thing’s paranoia for a while.

“Fine,” he said, leaning down to finish removing the chains. “But next time warn a guy.”

 **::Not a guy,::** the wolf pointed out.

Curling his lip, Dean grabbed a convenient tarp and tossed it over the thing. When it started to jerk free, he firmly pressed one hand down on its head. “I’m not looking at those freaky-ass eyes of yours any more than I have to,” he said.

 **::Stupid noshape,::** the wolf growled, and then sent him a vivid image of his throat being torn out by huge, silvered jaws.

“Right back at you,” Dean muttered, shaking the image off and heading over to the table to coil the chain back into neat rolls. When he was finished with that, he started on the rope by his feet. He’d been in a hurry to get Sam settled in, and knocked over a few of his coils: if he left it like that for too long, damned stuff would get hopelessly tangled.

He could feel the wolf seething in his head as he worked: sensed it chafing underneath the tarp he’d tossed over it. Dipping into Dean Winchester’s memory, he pulled out a list of songs and started singing them in his head, drowning the wolf out. He was about halfway through _All Along the Watchtower_ when a subtle shifting noise from the support beam where he’d tied Sam caught his attention. Lifting his head, he saw that little brother was coming around.

 **::Make SamBrotherFriendPartnerSammy go,::** the wolf insisted immediately.

 _Patience_ , he thought back, winding the rope around his arm. It would take time to push Sam far enough to make him leave his brother. But he could do it, no problem.

The new and improved Dean Winchester was humming inside as he went about laying the groundwork.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Something was holding him down in the darkness.

Dean struggled toward wakefulness and the warning throb of heat that was telling him he was going to have one hell of a headache when he finally opened his eyes. The pressure on him increased, almost like a hand on his forehead. Almost like a voice telling him _StaySleepNoWakeNow_.

Ignoring the voice, Dean forced himself closer to the surface. That pain was waiting for him for a reason: he was hurt, maybe alone. The skinwalker had belted him one across the head, he remembered suddenly, and if he wasn’t dead then he was still in deep shit. Couldn’t afford to be lazing around.

Another shove upward and Dean was opening his eyes to darkness. There was a moist weight to the air around his mouth, which meant that there was something covering his face—some kind of tarp, maybe. A straining tightness in his shoulders and chest told him that his hands were tied behind him. As he flexed his wrists, trying to get some sensation back into his numb hands, he caught a whisper of movement from behind him, along with something that strongly resembled Sam’s frustrated grumbles whenever he was trying to work his way through an annoying problem.

Dean took a deep breath and almost gagged on the foul smell coming from the canvas. His head pulsed in time with the coughs forced out of his lungs, and when he could speak again he called out, “That better be you, Sam, and not that freak of nature.”

There was a relieved chuff of breath from Sam’s direction and then his brother answered, “Yeah, it’s me.”

Dean shook the canvas off, ignoring the sharp spikes of pain that shot through his skull at the violent motion, and Sam added, “He went to Rebecca’s looking like you.” Then there was more grunting as Sam moved around, probably trying to get himself out of his own bonds.

Dean slipped his fingers into his back pocket and came up empty. Either the freaky bastard had found his pocketknife and taken it, or Dean wasn’t wearing his own clothes anymore. He glanced down while he felt around on the floor for something he could use and had to stifle a groan. Damned skinwalker had switched clothes with him, which meant that he was currently wearing a shirt and a pair of jeans that had been liberally smeared with rotting and half-eaten food.

Maybe the canvas wasn’t what had smelled so funky after all.

 _Don’t think about it,_ he told himself, and then said, “Well, it’s not stupid: it picked the good looking one.” He could practically smell Sam’s concern for Rebecca slip into annoyance. Giving up on the floor, he skimmed his fingers over the metal beam he’d been tied to: it felt a little rough around the edges, which was better than nothing. He started working his arms up and down.

“Freaky bastard stole my clothes,” he grumbled after a moment, and heard Sam’s half-amused, half-exasperated laugh.

“You better not be naked over there.”

Way these clothes stunk, maybe it would be better if he was. Dean grimaced and kept rubbing the rope across that rough outcropping of metal. “It’s weird, man. Thing’s walking around out there wearing my face.” And then, because he couldn’t help himself, “Hey, which one of us is better looking?”

“Would you concentrate on getting out of here?”

Dean considered for a moment and then said, “Bet I’ve got a better personality, though. I mean, _I’m_ not a knife-wielding psychotic.” He yanked harder at his bonds and the rope gave against the beam. Score.

“Yeah, that’s the thing,” Sam grunted as Dean tossed the coils of rope off his chest. “He didn’t just look like you, he _was_ you. Or he was becoming you.”

“What do you mean?” Man, it was tough to untangle himself from this stuff. Like his limbs didn’t really want to obey him or something.

“I don’t know, it was like he was downloading your thoughts and memories.”

There was something in Sam’s voice: some kind of underlying tone that told Dean that the shifter had been fucking with his little brother. And it wasn’t like he’d had these warm fuzzy feelings for the thing before, but that son of a bitch was definitely toast now. No one messed with ( _SamBrotherFriendPartnerSammy_ ) Sam.

Dean shoved his anger aside, concentrating on working at the ropes. “You mean like the Vulcan mind meld?” he called.

“Yeah, something like that. I mean, maybe that’s why he doesn’t just kill us.”

Leaning over, Dean made quick work of the rope around his ankles. Kicked the loose lengths off and then hurried over toward Sam.

“Maybe he needs to keep us alive,” he guessed. “Psychic connection.” But even as he said it, Dean didn’t think that was the answer. Not all of it. He thought maybe the shifter wanted to take its time with them, or was after something else altogether. Something …

“Hands—yeah.”

Dean frowned as he worked at the ropes around Sam’s wrists. Something was wrong here: something he was missing, or forgetting. But Sam was hurrying him along, and Rebecca was in trouble, and, with a pang of unease, Dean let it go.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They were jogging down a dark alley—although why they were in such a hurry, when the cops had already chased “Dean Winchester” off from Rebecca’s, Dean didn’t know—when he remembered what he’d forgotten. His hand was coming up to feel for the amulet— _it’s not there, though, that bastard took it_ —when the wolf uncoiled from hiding and pounced.

 **DeanMeMINE.**

“Fuck!” he shouted, and staggered sideways into a brick wall. His hands came up to cradle his head, where the wolf was pacing in agitated circles. He leaned against the wall, pressing one shoulder and half of his face into its cool, rough surface. “Fuck!” he spat again, and the wolf scrambled through him.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice right beside him. Sam’s hand on his shoulder.

The wolf snarled. **Notpack! BiteHurtClaw.**

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

Sweat was pouring off of Dean’s skin as he fought to maintain control of his own body. If the wolf won now, it was going to use Dean’s teeth to tear Sam apart. But it felt like the wolf was everywhere at once, clawing its way forward and forcing Dean down.

He snapped his head out and then back into the wall. Red exploded across his vision, but the pain was helping him concentrate—helping him fight. He was pulling back for another knock when Sam’s hands wrapped around him and pulled Dean against his broad chest.

“Stop! Goddamn it, Dean! Talk to me!” Sam was really panicked now—that sour fear scent coming off of him in waves—but Dean couldn’t answer. His entire body was shivering with the effort not to give in, and his mouth was filled with the taste of blood—maybe he’d bitten his lip when he slammed his head into the wall, maybe it was some kind of sense-memory—and the wolf’s voice was deafening as it rolled through him.

 **MINE. Can’t have you, can’t take you. Kill him first.**

Dean slipped from Sam’s grip and onto the pavement, one knee going into a puddle. His back arched as he pressed his fingers deeper into his skull, like he could rip the wolf out.

“Son of a bitch,” he panted. “Get out of my fucking head.”

Sam was saying something but Dean couldn’t really make out the words. His hold was slipping. The wolf was rising, was surging forward, and Dean could almost feel the soft skin of Sam’s throat tearing beneath his teeth. Then there was a snap that jerked through Dean’s entire body and the wolf was yowling in pain. It receded, limping and making this pitiful, whimpering whine.

 **Hurts!** it moaned, and what the _fuck_? It had been winning. It had almost had him. Dean felt after the wolf cautiously and caught a trickle of its memory. Understanding hit him, and even as bitterness flooded his mouth, he relaxed.

The wolf had made some kind of deal with the skinwalker. Had reached through Dean into the sick bastard and left a part of itself there to make sure that it didn’t welsh. Doing that had weakened the wolf enough that Dean had actually been able to fight for control, and then, just as he was about to lose his grip, the skinwalker had changed its shape again. It had slipped off its Dean Winchester face and dropped its connection to his mind, leaving part of the wolf trapped inside of its head.

No wonder the wolf was in pain: what had just happened to it was sort of like having one of its paws sliced off in a trap.

“Serves you right, you bastard,” Dean growled. He slowly let his hands drop to the ground and leaned forward to let his weight rest on them.

“Dean?”

Oh yeah. Sammy.

Dean tilted his head to the side and said shortly. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” Sam yanked him up to his feet and then held him at arm’s length, studying him with narrowed eyes and a scowl. “What the hell just happened, Dean?”

Damn it. Dean swallowed, not sure what to say, but pretty damned certain that now was not the time to get into the whole berserker thing. _So lie, you asshole._ But he was still reeling from his near-miss, and he wasn’t sure how long it would take the wolf to recover, and—

“Was it the skinwalker?” Sam asked.

 _Ohthankgod._ “Yeah,” Dean said. He licked his lips and nodded. “Bastard’s gone now, though.” Sam still didn’t look convinced, and Dean wasn’t really up to persuading him. His whole body ached from the aftermath of his fight with the wolf, but he shook Sam off and started jogging down the alley again. “Come on, Sammy,” he called over his shoulder. “We don’t have all night here.”

And even as he said the words, Dean was chilled by how true they were. _I need to find that freak. Get the amulet back._ He forced himself to speed up a little, and did his best not to listen to the pathetic whimpers echoing endlessly through his mind.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean/Rebecca/Wolf fell against the side of the sewer, one hand groping blindly for support. It always felt vulnerable and confused during a change, but it was worse this time—worse because of that damned wolf spirit that had gotten stuck inside its head. The wolf was screaming—yips and yelps that made Dean/Rebecca/Wolf want to knock its head against the wall until unconsciousness took the confusion away.

Rebecca/Dean/Wolf had been doing fine—had been having fun with Rebecca, enjoying the wonderful new body it had just acquired for itself—and then there were police. Cops with their guns and their walkie-talkies and their spoiling of its fun.

And how had they known that Rebecca/Dean/Wolf was at Rebecca’s house? Dean Winchester had tipped them off, that’s how. Which meant, didn’t it, that the wolf had broken its word not to try and escape? Otherwise Dean Winchester would still have been tucked away safely where Rebecca/Dean/Wolf had left him and Rebecca would still be trying to scream through her gag.

Worse, the cops had certainly seen his Dean skin when they interrupted him, which meant that it wouldn’t do for long-term use after all. Goddamned shame: being Dean had been … nice.

But Rebecca/Dean/Wolf had never been much of a sentimentalist, so it had hurried below ground to shed its ruined Dean skin. It had expected the wolf to be sloughed away when it broke off contact with the human’s mind, but that hadn’t been the case. Instead, they’d both gotten a nasty surprise.

“Shut up!” Rebecca/Wolf/Dean snarled, but the whimpering in its head continued unabated. Its only consolation was that Dean probably had to listen to this shit too.

Dean. Dean Winchester with his damned wolf.

Rebecca/Wolf/Dean—Rebecca/Wolf, now that it had almost finished shedding its Dean persona—barked out a laugh. Maybe the wolf had screwed it over, but that didn’t mean that it couldn’t do the wolf the same favor. Spread the misery around a little. After all, this new skin was an old friend of Sammy’s, and what had the wolf said about Dean’s little brother?

Rebecca/Wolf was grinning as it continued down the sewer. _Let’s see you get your DeanMeMine after you’ve been responsible for Sammy’s death,_ it thought, and in its head, the wolf continued to scream.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean edged up to the Impala, keeping a wary eye out for any sign of the police. They were probably checking in on the car every so often, waiting for him to show up again.

 **Not here,** the wolf said. It sounded subdued—almost impossibly weary and hurt—but at least it wasn’t yowling in his head anymore. He hadn’t managed to drop off to sleep once last night, and it had nothing to do with the abandoned building he’d holed up in.

 _How do you know?_ Dean thought back. He hated talking to the thing—hated acknowledging that it was there—but he couldn’t argue with necessity, and the truth of the matter was that right now he needed the wolf.

 **No twolegs scent.**

Okay, then. Dean was going to have to take its word for that because, although his own sense of smell had improved ridiculously since he’d woken up with the amulet gone, he didn’t know enough to distinguish one scent from another yet. He supposed he’d get used to it soon enough, when he’d hunted more with the—

“Stop that,” he growled.

 **Not doing anything.**

“I mean it. Keep your thoughts to yourself.”

 **Not me.** It sounded pleased with itself, and Dean bit back a curse as he eased the driver’s side door open. If the wolf was telling the truth, then he was slipping. He was falling into the same trap his father had, and he needed that goddamned amulet back _now_.

 **Stupid hornhead. Break it smash it.**

“Yeah, you wish.” Dean slid behind the wheel and shoved the keys in the ignition. Revved the engine and then peeled out of the alley. He kept checking over his shoulder for cops as he headed toward the street where he and Sam had emerged the night before.

The wolf was silent as he drove, but he could feel it watching through his eyes. Could sense it wagging the tail it didn’t have and lolling its likewise nonexistant tongue out one side of its mouth. He rolled down the window and leaned one arm out, tilting his face into the wind. No wonder dogs loved doing this: the array of scents rushing into him was dizzying.

A truck that was heading the other way honked at him and Dean jerked back into the car, swerving over onto the shoulder for a second before regaining control of the wheel. Sweat poured down his neck, and his heart hammered inside his chest. He’d almost driven straight into that trunk. What the fuck had he been thinking, leaning out of the car like that?

 **Want wind,** the wolf insisted, and Dean’s body inclined toward the open window again.

“Son of a bitch.” He yanked the car over onto a side street—this was gonna have to be close enough—and parked. “You almost got us both killed!”

 **Didn’t.**

“Jesus Christ.” Dean dropped his head down onto the steering wheel, not sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. If he didn’t get that amulet back soon, Sam was going to be on his own, because Dean would be busy running around naked in the woods somewhere.

 **Hunting,** the wolf agreed. **Hunt noshape now.**

As much as Dean hated agreeing with the thing, he nodded. “Yeah, okay. But I’m in charge, you hear me?”

 **Two-as-one. Equal.**

“No.” He wasn’t letting the wolf in his head. Not any more than it already was, anyway. The wolf tried to press forward, tried to take control, and Dean shoved it back with a little more effort than he’d needed the last time it tried that. Losing part of itself to the skinwalker had weakened it, but the wolf was regaining its strength—was healing—at an alarming rate.

All the more reason to get his amulet back.

 **Two-as-one better. Stronger.**

“I said no. I’m in charge or we don’t do it.”

The wolf grumbled a little more about it, but finally gave in. It wanted to find the skinwalker as much as he did: wanted to kill the unnatural son of a bitch that had hurt it. Dean climbed out of the car and went around to the back to arm himself: couple of silver knives, his gun.

Sam’s words came back to him as he was checking the chamber. _‘Dean! Stay out of the sewers alone. I mean it!’_

Dean grimaced. Sam was going to kill him for this later. He sighed internally as he snapped the chamber home. “I’m sorry, Sam. You know me: I just can’t wait.” And this time he really couldn’t _afford_ to wait.

 **Hunt noshape now?** the wolf asked hopefully.

“Yeah.” Dean spotted a storm drain and moved toward it. “You gonna be able to track it down there?”

 **Yes.** The wolf was grinning inside him, teeth shining and sharp. **Rip bite tear.**

“Fucking A,” Dean muttered, and climbed down into the darkness of the shifter’s underground lair.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Without the wolf’s help, Dean would have been lost within minutes. He had no sense of direction down here: needed the wolf to sort through the smells coming in through his nose. Needed the little nudges it gave him— _right, go forward, left there._

Dean had his flashlight out: was following the beam and pretending that he needed its help to see in the dark. Pretending that his vision wasn’t sharper than normal: that everything wasn’t standing out in harsh black and white—except for the rats, which came across as violent red glows.

The wolf had grumbled petulantly about that for a few minutes before realizing that Dean wasn’t going to give the light up. Maybe he was being stupid—that white beam was interfering with whatever night vision thing he had going on here—but he needed the illusion of normalcy to keep himself grounded. And Jesus, he needed _some_ kind of grounding because this kind of hunting was damned addictive.

With the wolf’s help, he could track down anything: could kill anything. Darkness wouldn’t be an issue anymore, and even his hearing was more sensitive than he was used to. He remembered the way it had felt when the wolf had taken over during that fight with the goblins. Remembered the feeling of rightness and invincibility that had come over him as he sliced through thick skin.

 _How good are you?_ he asked it now, not really wanting to know but unable to help himself.

 **Best,** came its immediate answer. Damned thing had probably been following his train of thought: hell, it might have been influencing him. Might be influencing him right now, for all he knew.

 **Am not,** the wolf said, sounding petulant and hurt.

Dean clenched his jaw and tried not to think of anything at all.

Inside his head, the wolf snorted and then said, **Can smell things. Like noshape. Smell deadshadows.**

Catching the images that accompanied that word, Dean paused, one hand brushing against the damp sewer wall. “You can smell ghosts?”

 **Yes. DeathlessDark too.**

Dean’s hand twitched of its own accord, his fingers digging furrows into the concrete that he didn’t notice. “Demons?” he blurted. “You can smell _demons_?”

 **Easy. Smell—** And then a phantom wave of scent washed over him, driving him to his knees as he fought to keep from throwing up. That scent—the demon scent—was like nothing he’d ever smelled before.

It was like nails being driven through his gums. Like black sludge dripping down his throat. Like blood and pus and breaking bones and skin sloughing off.

It was gone as suddenly as it had come and Dean was gasping, was kneeling in cold, dirty water and shivering. “Don’t _do_ that!” he growled, but the wolf was unrepentant.

 **See? Hunt good. Two-as-one better.**

Damned thing sounded smug, and Dean couldn’t help wondering. Couldn’t help thinking how much easier it would be … how many people he could save …

Then he remembered the girl he’d almost fucked _(or eaten)_ in the woods. Remembered his father’s hand curled around his throat, cutting off his air.

He swore and pushed himself to his feet. “Forget it, furball.”

The wolf sulked as they moved forward, grudgingly providing directions and otherwise grumbling under its breath at him. Dean was just about to tell the damned thing to grow up and shut up when it growled, **Close now.**

Dean slipped his gun out and, shifting his grip until he had a comfortable hold on both the flashlight and the pistol, stepped around the corner. The beam of light found another pile of bile-coated flesh and blood in the middle of the sewer and his pulse ratcheted up a notch. Stepping carefully over the mess, he edged into the skinwalker’s lair, his eyesight returning to normal as the warm glow of candlelight hit him.

The wolf sifted through the scents flooding the air and then announced, **Noshape not here.**

Dean didn’t bother questioning it this time, but he didn’t put his gun away either. Who knew when the freak would show up again? He _did_ relax minutely as he stepped across to the candles, running his gaze over more of that disgusting castoff, on up to chains and then …

 _Souvenirs. Sweet._ But disappointment flooded him almost instantly as he moved closer. His amulet wasn’t there: the skinwalker must still have it on him.

A faint shifting noise caught Dean’s attention and he lifted his head, swiveling the flashlight to illuminate the far corner of the skinwalker’s lair. The same corner he’d woken up in. And there was a tarp-covered, moving shape over there.

The wolf shoved forward a little, used Dean’s nose to take a deep breath, and immediately perked up. **Bitch,** it said eagerly, and Dean’s dick twitched at the flow of images _(WarmMoistHotWetTight)_ that accompanied that particular proclamation.

 _Not happening,_ he told it, and then ran through ammo statistics in his head as he moved forward, trying to drown out the wolf’s attempts to bring Dean Jr. into the conversation.

 **Want,** the wolf insisted.

 _Fuck off,_ Dean shot back, and then reached forward, gripped the edge of the tarp, and pulled it down. Revealing a bloody, sweat- and dirt-smeared woman. Blonde hair and a familiar face.

“Rebecca,” he said, surprised.

Rebecca cringed back from him and Dean realized that her last encounter with someone wearing his face hadn’t gone all that well. He held his hands up in a calming gesture, then realized he was still holding the gun and tucked it away.

“It’s okay; it’s me. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“D-Dean? Is that really you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” _And a goddamned annoying furry passenger._ He sent a mental swat at the horny wolf as he crouched down in front of Rebecca, reaching for the ropes around her ankles. “What happened?” he added, more to get her talking and focused than anything else. He already knew what had happened, after all. Knew why the thing had grabbed her and stashed her down here: if two Rebeccas showed up at her house, Sam was gonna get real suspicious.

 _Why Sam?_ he thought, and immediately knew where to turn for answers.

This whole situation reeked of the damned wolf’s meddling. It had made some kind of deal with the shifter, and Dean should have paid more attention to that before: shouldn’t have dismissed it as some kind of failed, underhanded attempt to get its paws on him.

Dean turned his attention inward and found the wolf trying to hide itself. _You son of a bitch,_ he thought, latching onto it and dragging it out into the open.

 **Let go!**

 _What the fuck did you do? Answer me, goddamn it!_

 **Said no kill.** It was whining, cringing away from him, and if Dean could have skinned it alive right now he would have. The wolf’s conversation with the skinwalker was spilling out along with those pathetic whimpers, and he’d been right: this _was_ all its fault.

 _You fucker. You goddamned son of a bitch, you made a deal with that thing to get rid of Sam._

 **Said no kill!** it repeated desperately. There was a sensation along his insides, as though the wolf was rubbing up against him submissively, its head back and its throat exposed.

But as much as Dean wanted to sink his teeth into that fur and skin, there were more important things for him to be doing right now. He turned outward again and found his hands automatically working the knots open. Heard Rebecca still talking, her voice thickening with panic. She didn’t seem to have noticed his preoccupation, though, which meant that his conversation with the wolf hadn’t taken as much time as he’d thought. Good: right now time was a very precious commodity.

“Okay, okay—it’s okay,” he muttered, not sure if he was trying to reassure himself or Rebecca. The last knot on the ropes binding her wrists loosened and he tossed them aside. “Come on. Can you walk?”

Her face was twisted with the fear he could smell all over her like sour perfume, but she nodded. Good girl.

“Okay, we gotta hurry.” He laced his fingers through hers— _calm her down, get her moving_ —and caught her eyes with his own. “Sam went to see you,” he told her, and saw realization flicker over her face.

Dean was worried that she would stumble or freak out on the way to the nearest opening—the one he and Sam had used before—but she kept up with him easily, her hand warm and slightly sweaty in his own. They were already at the ladder before he realized that going aboveground might not be the quickest way to do this. Not for him. Not anymore.

He stopped suddenly, his free hand gripping the first rung.

“Dean?” Rebecca asked.

Ignoring her, he slipped inside himself again. The wolf was waiting for him, its head hanging low. _How fast can we move?_ he demanded.

The wolf lifted its head slightly. **Wolf-fast. Fast like wind.**

 _Faster than the car?_

 **Yes. No stop-go-stop at orderlights. Go underground. Follow trail. Save SamBrotherFriendPartnerSammy.** And the mental image Dean had of the wolf wagged its tail, grinning contritely. His anger flared again at the reminder of just what it had to be contrite about.

 _If he dies, I swear to God I will find a way to kill you._

 **Won’t,** the wolf promised quickly. **Save SamBrotherFrie—**

 _Shut the fuck up unless I ask you a question._ Dean jerked his attention outward again.

Rebecca had pulled away from him. Was backed up against the damp wall of the sewer trying to free her hand from his grip. He let her go immediately, wondering what had happened, what she’d seen, and then shoved those thoughts away. He’d deal with it later.

“There’s a way out up this ladder,” he said. “Get yourself to a hospital.”

“What about Sam? If he’s in trouble, shouldn’t we—”

“I’m taking care of it. And no, you’re not coming with me; you won’t be able to keep up.” He turned before she could protest and started moving down the tunnel, then paused and shouted one last command over his shoulder. “No cops! They’ll only get in the way.”

“Dean, wait!” Rebecca called, but he was already sprinting down the tunnel, not even bothering with his flashlight this time. He waited until he was far enough away that Rebecca wouldn’t be able to see him and then reached down for the wolf.

 _Okay, let’s do this._

The wolf came forward to meet him and strength flooded through him. He felt his muscles tighten and crackle with energy. Saw the sewer walls shooting past in a black and white blur as his pace sped.

 _No one touches my bro_   
**ther, you noshape freak.**

DeanMeMine grit his teeth together, ducked into a side passage after that shifting, shapeless scent, and ran faster.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Rebecca stumbled out of the sewer and fell forward onto the grass. Her skin stung from all the cuts that Dean— _no, not Dean: that shapeshifter thing_ —had inflicted on her last night, and her head ached from being knocked out. She just wanted to lie here on the cool grass until morning came: to wait for everything to slow down and make sense again.

But Sam was in trouble. Sam was in trouble because he’d come here to help Zack, he was here because of _Rebecca_ , and she couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. _Dean’s taking care of it,_ she told herself, but she was already staggering to her feet and moving toward the street, one hand raised to hail a cab—if any would stop for a woman in her condition.

Dean was taking care of it, but something was wrong with Dean. For a few moments there he’d … spaced out, or something, and there had been this cold expression on his face that she hadn’t liked. _He was just thinking, that’s all,_ she thought, but that was a lie. Something had been going on with him: something not right. Something that had reflected in his eyes _(didn’t see it, didn’t happen)_ as a half-glimpsed yellow shine. It had been a trick of the light, of course, that was all it had been, but what if he _(went wrong)_ spaced out again when he was trying to save Sam?

“Jesus, lady, you okay?”

Rebecca came back to herself and found a taxi pulled up to the curb in front of her. The driver, middle aged and overweight, was leaning over toward the passenger window with an almost comical expression of surprise and concern on his broad face.

“I’m—I’m fine.” She pulled open the back door and climbed in quickly. “1542 Edgeworth, please, and hurry.”

The cabbie eyed her doubtfully in the rearview mirror. “Jeez, lady, you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital or something? You look like someone really worked you over.”

“No, please, I—” She fumbled for some kind of explanation that he would accept—for a lie that would get her what she wanted—and then remembered how readily she had accepted Sam’s lie about his brother. “I’m an undercover police officer. My partner’s in trouble and I have to get to him right now.” Surprisingly, the words didn’t stick in her mouth. More surprisingly, the cabbie immediately pulled away from the curb.

“Ten-four, officer. How much trouble is your partner in? We can use my radio to call in some backup if you—”

“No! The thi—man who’s holding him will kill him if anyone else shows up. Just—just hurry, okay?”

“Can do.” He tilted his head back at her as they came up on a red light. “You want I should just go on through?”

“Yes. Just get me there as soon as possible.”

“Okay then!” She could see his wide grin in the rearview mirror as he sped up and zipped through the light, ignoring the angry honks from the other cars. “Been waiting all my life to do this,” he confided. Rebecca sat back in her seat, her fingers curled tightly into her thighs. At this rate, if they didn’t crash or get pulled over by the actual police, she might actually get there in time.

 _In time for what?_ she asked herself. _What do you think you’re going to do against that shapeshifter thing?_

Rebecca didn’t have an answer to that question, and this was probably the stupidest thing she’d ever done, but she was going anyway. She at least owed it to Sam to try.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

DeanMeMine didn’t even bother trying the door. He hauled himself up out of the sewer and sprinted across the lawn, diving in through one of the downstairs windows. Rolled to a stop against the far wall and shook the glass out of his hair, feeling the tiny cuts on his skin scab over and then heal in a few heartbeats.

There were crashing sounds coming from upstairs: fighting. He could smell SamBrotherFriendPartnerSammy. Could smell his fear and anger hanging sharp and bitter on the air. There was another scent here as well: low and thick and growl inducing. The noshape’s smell. The noshape was angry too—it was _pissed_ —and DeanMeMine climbed to his feet and started for the stairs.

Headlights swept over the room and he crouched, head swiveling toward the living room window. Now that he was paying attention, the sound of the car outside was almost embarrassingly loud. And when he focused further, he could hear voices: a strange man’s and the bitch from the sewer. RebeccaSweetHotWantSammyFriend.

There was another crash from upstairs, louder than what had come before, and a thud on the floor above him. Then silence. With a great effort, DeanMeMine—no, _Dean_ , he was _Dean Winchester_ —forced himself back to his feet.

 _Sammy,_ he thought, and then he was racing for the stairs, pulling out his gun as he went.

The skinwalker was wearing Dean’s face again. Was sitting on top of Sam with its hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing. Sam’s hands were falling away from the thing’s arms. Sam’s eyes were rolling back in his head, and No Fucking Way.

“Hey!” Dean shouted.

The skinwalker’s head snapped up and it scrambled off of Sam. Moved away from him, knees bent and eyes fixed on Dean. It was shifting its weight from side to side, looking for an opening—maybe looking to see whether it was dealing with Dean or the wolf.

 **Rip bite tear** , the wolf urged.

Dean pulled the trigger. Pulled it again for good measure, even though he was pretty sure that the first bullet had gone home.

The skinwalker slammed back into the wall with the force of the shots and then dropped, falling to land on its back on top of a low bench with an expression of mild surprise on its face. Dean lowered his gun slowly, his heart pounding with the need to be across the room sinking his teeth in the shifter’s exposed throat. He ignored the scent of Rebecca— _I told her to go to a hospital, damn it_ —as she materialized beside him.

 **Rip bite tear,** the wolf repeated. An image of himself turning the skinwalker's throat into so much mangled meat slammed into Dean, making him tighten his grip on the gun.

 _No._

He could hear Rebecca saying Sam’s name, could hear Sam’s labored panting as he fought to get his breath back. But he couldn’t seem to look away from the skinwalker—from that glint of gold _(so fucking close)_ resting on its chest. Safety. Salvation.

The wolf was starting to pull back from its bloodlust—was starting to realize that the hated hornhead was _right there_ —and it whined as Dean started forward.

 **Nononononono,** the wolf moaned, scrambling around Dean’s insides desperately. **Two-as-one better. Two-as-one _two-as-one_!**

 _Screw you, furball,_ Dean thought back, crouching down next to the skinwalker’s body. Any other time, looking at his own face on a corpse would have been pretty freaky, but right now Dean was too relieved to feel much of anything else.

 **Hunt better! Save more!** the wolf insisted. It drowned him with images of the two of them—of the two-as-one—hunting: seeking out the dark, unnatural things of the world and destroying them before they could hurt anyone. Dean-as-Wolf would be free. Would be unstoppable.

But Dean raised his eyes to his brother, who was lying in Rebecca’s lap as he panted and gasped for breath, and the fact that the wolf was right didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because those benefits came with a cost that Dean wasn’t willing to pay. _No,_ he told it, and reached out for the amulet.

The wolf went nuclear inside of him, howling and whimpering and pleading, and then Dean was actually holding the amulet. That soft leather cord was in his hand and he could feel its power reaching down for the wolf. Could feel the wolf fighting the amulet’s pull as he swung it up in a short arc and caught it in the palm of his hand.

He closed his fist around it and the wolf gave one more resistant shudder and then stilled. Stilled but didn’t disappear. He could still feel it inside him. It was asleep again, but not as deeply: Dean could almost hear it dreaming.

 _Good enough,_ he thought, and tucked the amulet away into his back jean pocket for safe keeping until he had a private moment to refasten it around his neck. It _wasn’t_ good enough, not really, but it was all he had.

Sitting back on his heels, Dean let his eyes slide over to Sam. He let himself look at his brother, beaten and bleeding and half-dead because that damned wolf had a hard on for him, and wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Rebecca rolled her eyes but her chest twinged in sympathy at how rough and painful Sam’s voice sounded. “For the tenth time, I’m _fine_. You’re the one that almost got choked to death.”

The corners of Sam’s mouth twitched up. “I’m used to it.” His eyes went to the broken window and he shifted in his seat. “Sorry about the window. Dean’s usually more careful.”

Dean, Sam’s brother. Dean, who had somehow managed to beat her here. Dean, with that strange little flare in his eyes and that inward, unseeing expression. Dean, who was conveniently absent while they waited in the living room for the police to arrive.

“Sam, about Dean … is he … is he okay?”

“Hm?” Sam turned his attention back to her. “What? Oh, Dean? No, he’s—he’s fine. Just a little overprotective.”

Rebecca bit her lip. “No, I mean, he’s normal, right?”

“Normal? _Dean_?” Sam snorted and then winced, one hand coming up to gently massage his throat.

“You okay?”

He waved her off. “Yeah.” He dropped his hand again and then raised one eyebrow. “Look, what are you trying to get at?”

“He made it here before me, Sam, and that cabbie had to be going at least fifty miles an hour the whole way.”

“Have you _seen_ Dean drive?” Sam asked, one corner of his mouth lifting wryly.

“Drive what?” she asked. “I didn’t see a car anywhere around here, and—”

“So he parked a few blocks away. Dean’s not stupid: he isn’t going to bring the car close enough to get it impounded by the cops.”

“Sam—”

“I get it, Rebecca, okay? The skinwalker, I know that it—it hurt you, and that it looked like him, but it wasn’t Dean.” His eyes had gone inward now, as though he was trying to reassure himself of that fact, and Rebecca shut her mouth on the protest she had been about to make.

Sam thought that she was suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress, but she wasn’t. Something was _off_ about Dean: something that was maybe a little dangerous. But Sam was already hurting enough, and she didn’t think—no, she was _positive_ —that Dean wasn’t a danger to him.

Whatever might be wrong with him, Dean had _saved_ Sam. Dean had practically carried Sam downstairs and made him sit on the couch and then forced him to hold an ice pack against his swollen throat. Dean had pulled Rebecca aside and asked her to call the cops. Had given her his gun and held her hands steady while she’d fired it into the shapeshifter’s body one more time. Gunpowder residue, he’d said.

And, before finally ducking out the back door, Dean had badgered Sam into promising that he’d let the police take him to the hospital to get checked out.

 _He’s not safe,_ Rebecca thought as she sat on the couch next to Sam. _He’s not safe but maybe he’s not bad—not evil like that thing upstairs was._

But she still couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Just … be careful, okay?”

Sam didn’t look at her, but he nodded, and she supposed that was going to have to be enough.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They were about an hour out of St. Louis before Dean couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t sit here next to a strangely quiet Sam wondering what the skinwalker had said to his brother. What it had told him before it tried to choke the life out of him.

“I’m sorry, man,” he said suddenly, and that wasn’t what he’d been meaning to say at all. Damn it.

Sam was silent for a second, and Dean was sweating lightly— _come on, come on, normally can’t shut you up with a goddamned muzzle_ —when he finally said, “About what?”

Dean couldn’t tell what tone of voice his brother was using and cursed the too-slow learning curve. Back before Sam had left for Stanford, Dean could’ve read his brother’s expressions blindfolded: could’ve decoded his voice even if he was stone cold deaf. Now it was like sparring with a stranger.

But Sam was waiting for an answer. Dean opened his mouth to tell him— _sorry I went and infected Dad with that damned bear and then came and dragged you out of Stanford so that the furry asshole inside of me could make a deal with a noshape and almost get you killed_ —and then realized that there was no way he could say that to Sam. Not right now, anyway. Not after what he’d just gone through.

Sam would _leave_. And then Dean would be left alone with the wolf.

Searching his mind, he came up with the crap that Sam was hopefully expecting. “I really wish things could be different, you know? I wish you could just be … Joe College.”

“Ah, that’s okay,” Sam said, and then sighed. “You know, truth is, even at Stanford, deep down I never really fit in.”

Dean tried not to let his two-fold relief at his brother’s words show: if Sam was going with what Dean had said, if he was doing his emo-boy sharing thing, then the skinwalker hadn’t said anything about the wolf.

“Well, that’s cause you’re a freak,” Dean pointed out, glancing over to see if he could read anything on his brother’s face.

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam snorted, but he was smiling.

“Well, I’m a freak too,” Dean continued, and then sobered as he realized how true that was. Realized that he was actually more of a freak than Sam would ever be, geeky book obsession and all. If he concentrated, he could feel the wolf stirring inside him. He’d felt it nosing around in his dreams last night.

“I’m right there with you all the way,” he finished, voice soft and chest tight.

Sam was laughing softly next to him—“Yeah, I know you are”—and Dean forced himself to shake it off. Because Sam _didn’t_ know, but he was gonna figure out that something was up if Dean didn’t snap out of this weird, maudlin mood already.

He searched around for something to distract his brother with and then found it. Let a cocky half-smile slip onto his face. “You know, I gotta say: I’m sorry I’m gonna miss it.”

“Miss what?” Sam asked.

Dean glanced over, and there was Sam. There was his brother looking a little worse for wear, but alive. Safe. His chest loosened a little in spite of his dark thoughts. “How many chances am I gonna have to see my own funeral?” he asked, and felt his grin turn genuine with relief.

Sam looked blankly at him for a moment and then Dean’s words sunk in and he smiled—not huge, not blinding like he used to, but a smile nonetheless. Dean turned his attention back to the road, feeling pretty damned good now, and then forgot how to breathe for a few seconds as the wolf grumbled sleepily inside of him.

It was silent a moment later, but Dean was sweating as he drove, eyes fastened on the road in front of him. First chance he got, he was going to call Bobby. Find out why the hell the amulet wasn’t working right anymore.

He only prayed that Bobby would have an answer for him.


End file.
